


Follow the Black Rabbit

by PeachGO3



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Transgender Newt, it's all very sweet trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2020-08-09 21:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: After Armageddon’t, Eric visits Earth to befriend Legendary Demon Crowley. That doesn’t fly. Instead he meets a very clumsy, very dysfunctional and very cute human. Who currently doesn’t have a job. Challenge accepted.





	1. Pocket Watch

**Author's Note:**

> People over on tumblr liked my Headcanons about our Bunny Demon :') New ones are [here!](https://ineffably-in-love.tumblr.com/post/186766671178/)

Today’s the day. The big day.

Eric checks the time on his mobile phone – almost twelve o’clock – and straightens up. He stands in front of the shabby bookshop in Soho where Crowley and his partner live. It’s a cute joint and looks incredibly cosy and classy – just right for Master Crowley, what else did he expect? The legend.

Most demons down in Hell view him as a traitor gone native, but Eric doesn’t. While Master Crowley is Hell’s main representative on Earth, Eric’s been here a fair bit, too. Over and over. Even socialising with humans. He is nobody’s fool. He didn’t have to sell himself short – what Master Crowley knew about humanity, he knew as well. (He also knew that Crowley invented neither the Spanish Inquisition nor the guillotine. Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition joke has been his idea though.)

Master Crowley invented selfies, an ingenious move. They caused humans great issues of self-hatred and danger when taken in inconvenient places. But they also were a lot of fun. They gave people the possibility to decide how they want to be seen. Empowering and demeaning at the same time. That was brilliant. Truly, ingeniously demonic.

Other things weren’t as much, Eric thought. Gluing coins to pavements wasn’t particularly elaborate. Great as a prank or so, but on a regular basis? That didn’t fly with Eric. And he could go on: Welsh language television is just annoying and lazy. As is Wifi disconnection. Skin on pudding is plain disgusting, just tasteless. And if Master Crowley would’ve slightly changed the position of just thirty-six markers back in the 1970s, the M25 would now have the shape of the sigil ‘fingur’ from the ancient language of Chethuqr. ‘Odegra’ was so old fashioned, Hell, no one even knew Mu anymore. Or black priesthoods, for that matter. Chethuqr would’ve been more adequate, Eric feels. He’s probably a bit biased because he wrote his final assignment about Chethuqr, but it just was a very interesting culture. And the language is far more accessible than Mu. No wonder no one cheered when Master Crowley had finished his presentation.

So many ideas. But despite his time spent on Earth, Eric has never talked to Master Crowley. When he held his presentations down in the office, Eric has never had a particularly good view. And whenever Master Crowley has walked past him afterwards, he has been ignored. Quite painfully so. Because Eric has many ideas of his own. ‘Fingur’ is just a quick adjustment. He could tell Master Crowley about his plans in North Korea (and South Korea, for that matter) or the great possibilities of the US president’s remaining term in office (because no one wants that clown for another four years, for sure).

And now, after the failed End of the World, Eric feels like it’s a good time to make connections and tell him about his ideas. To make Master Crowley notice him at least. If you got it, flaunt it, that is this mission’s motto. Maybe then Eric would finally, finally get upgraded and released from this nightmare of an existence.

He breaths in and opens the door to the bookshop. At least he wants to. But the door is locked and the sign says ‘closed’. “Oh, really now?” he says to himself and sighs, looking around. There are a lot of people on the street. He doesn’t want to do this, but well – Eric snaps his fingers and is now inside, in-between tons and tons of books. Ha, that was easy.

He beats some dust off his sleeves. What a shame, this is his best outfit! He looks around. Wow. That Principality hasn’t been idle. How many books were in here?

Suddenly, there’re steps coming closer. “Excuse me, but we are quite definitely closed right now,” says a posh sounding voice. A stubby middle-aged man appears from the back room, his hands rising in a nervous gesture when he notices Eric is in fact –

“A demon? In here?”

“Yes, hello,” Eric says and bows lightly. “You must be the Principality from Eden.”

“I… am,” the angel says as if his radiation would not instantly give away his true nature. “And you are?” he adds carefully.

“My name is Eric, I am a demon trainee.” Eric smiles and steps closer, which makes the angel flinch. “What do you want?” he asks.

Eric tries to stand back. Good manners and all. “I’m actually looking for Master Crowley,” he says. “I want to talk about his Earthly inventions. Just a quick exchange, really. Is there any chance he’s here?”

“No,” a voice from the backroom calls. Master Crowley! But next, Eric hears the snap of two fingers and finds himself in front of the shop. Huh? He snaps to go back inside and ends up right in front of two serpentine eyes.

“Stay out, titch.”

And he’s back outside. He snaps his fingers yet again but burns himself quite badly in the process. And he doesn’t move. Eric huffs and turns to yell at the closed door, but he decides he probably shouldn’t. Maybe he just came with the wrong timing? “Maybe you could host me another day?” he calls politely, just to be sure.

“No,” the whole building growls.

Eric’s hair antennae hang down sadly as he turns around. Now he actually has to save the opened list on his mobile phone. He sighs as he reads ‘figur’ as the first point on it.

He curses in Chethuqr. His phone’s screen flickers. “No need to whinge,” he adds in a low voice and tugs it away. Just as he turns, he bumps into another body – just a human body, luckily. Ouch. “Watch where you’re going, sweetie,” Eric says and tries to help the guy back onto his feet. He’s wearing an incredibly hideous jacket and carries a very stuffed bag with him. Wow.

“I’m sorry,” the human utters and adjusts his glasses. And then he looks up at Eric, eyes all red.

Oh.

Eric blinks ere replying, “Me too. Sorry. Didn’t know where I was looking.”

The human nods and presses his lips together, breaking their eye contact. He makes huge efforts not to continue crying, apparently. Oh dear! What a poor fellow. He still ducks his head when he’s back on both feet. “Your make-up looks really good,” he utters quietly (and totally out of nowhere).

“Why, thank you,” Eric says and collects the things the human dropped before – a purse, a single sock, a book – “Oh, astronomy?” Eric asks.

The human nods and takes it with trembling fingers. Oh dear, he’s really distressed. Whatever has happened to him, Eric wants to help. Once in a while this ungracious sense of neighbouring love just kicked it. A fun demonic temptation should do: “It’ll pass, take it from me. Just do something you like to pass some time.”

The human blinks and takes the bait. “Pass some time?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Eric beams. Wow, he is easy to tempt. He didn’t even question the strange suggestion. “Whatever you like to do best. Guilty pleasures et cetera,” Eric specifies.

The human looks down. If he wouldn’t slouch like that, he would be almost exactly Eric’s height.

“Hell, do whatever you feel like doing right now,” Eric suggests with a knowing smile.

“I feel like eating,” the human blurts out, book held tight in front of his chest. “Great, that’s something to work with,” Eric smiles and guides him forward. “There’s a fish and chips joint down the road. My treat.”

“Really?” the human asks as they start walking, and there’s actually a little smile on his wet face as he speaks. That’s a start. But he doesn’t seem like he has someone to talk to… Eric will do that. He’ll listen.

* * *

Newt doesn’t know what to think. By now he’s pretty sure he’s being hit on, but he strangely doesn’t mind. Not even a little bit. But right now he cannot think about it, because it’s his turn to order.

“One bag of fish and chips,” he says astonishingly sure. Huh?

“And one with chips and that avocado cream, please.” The guy smiles at him as he hands the vendor the money. Newt eyes him with admiration. He acts so cool. And that look is something, too. So much make-up. Much black around the eyes, but Newt doesn’t know the right term for it. The big scarf was stylish, too. But what is up with those… bunny ears? They look fluffy.

“Those look really cool,” he says and points to them cautiously.

“Thanks,” the guy smiles. Oh, his smile is so very bright. “I need to take great care of them, but beauty knows no pain. Wow, sorry, that came out douchey,” he says and laughs about himself. He’s so casual. As Newt takes the bags from the vendor, he remembers something he read on the internet once – ‘hot people are even hotter when you find out how nice they are’. Well, this guy is certainly very nice. Newt feels comfortable around him, relaxed even. If he isn’t hitting on him, he surely wants to sell him something. Or maybe he’s just a friendly cosplayer. Or he just dresses like that, nowadays society is okay with that after all.

They walk a few feet away where the street is less crowded and start eating their chips. Avocado cream. Fancy. That’s way out of Newt’s league.

“So,” the guy begins, “won’t you tell me why you were crying?”

“Err,” Newt makes. He isn’t prepared to talk about this, he thinks. And the next second he starts speaking. “My girlfriend broke up with me earlier today,” he hears himself say. And he likes saying it. It feels good to say it.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry to hear that,” the guy says with a worried face, and the worst part is that he actually sounds genuine. This is a genuine conversation. Newt feels the need to ask for his name but doesn’t. He just awkwardly opens and closes his mouth. And blushes.

“It’s okay, I guess,” he says somewhen, “because she just didn’t feel the same. We had prophesied sex but did not fall in love, apparently.”

“Prophesied sex?” the guy asks with a giggle.

“Yes.” Newt closes his eyes in embarrassment. “Professional descendant and all that. Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

“Well, sometimes it be like that,” the guy just says as though the nonsense Newt has just uttered was a normal thing to tell a perfect stranger. Newt shivers. This guy was very nice to be around. Newt then reaches out to point at his chips bag. “Is it good?” he asks out of politeness rather than interest.

“The avocado cream? It’s actually better than I thought,” the guy says with the face of an expert. Newt swallows. “I’ve never actually eaten something avocado… flavoured,” he admits with embarrassment. He must look like a complete idiot to this gay cosmopolitan.

“Try it,” the guy all but whispers. He offers Newt a single chip, green and thick with avocado cream, and Newt – without even hesitating – leans in and takes a bite. He smiles and chews, but it actually tastes of nothing. How underwhelming. The guy fixates him with brown eyes and Newt chews faster and looks down. He starts panicking as he wonders what is going on here.

All of a sudden, Newt wants to flee. He starts sweating and tosses his chips into the next trash can with such ease that he flushes. “I need to go now,” he utters.

The stranger’s eyes widen, but then he nods and says, “All right. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Newt sniffs. His mouth starts speaking on its own again: “It’s okay, I guess. She didn’t really like me back.”

“Aww, sweetie,” the stranger goes, lowering his avocado chips. Newt feels terrible. Because he feels good saying it out loud. “I’m okay,” he says again, breathing heavily. The stranger gestures to make him calm. “I’m okay,” Newt breathes. “I will be okay.”

“You will be,” the stranger assures him.

“I’ll go home now,” Newt says without moving. He just awkwardly stands there for a while and feels very self-indulgent. He does not want to go home alone.

The guy accompanies him and walks by his side. He’s a good listener. He listens to how Newt is jobless now. Jobless and carless, yes, he even listened to Newt’s story about how he got into the car crash that made him meet Anathema in the first place.

“Sorry if that question is weird,” he says, “but just for clarification: Dick Turpin is your car’s name?”

“Yes,” Newt utters while avoiding eye contact. He adjusts his glasses and even smiles when he adds, “Want to know why it’s called Dick Turpin?”

The guy snickers. “All right.” He clears his throat to continue in a serious, low voice that almost makes Newt crack up. “Why is your car called Dick Turpin?”

Newt does giggle at that. He really asked! “Because everywhere it goes, it holds up traffic,” he says with a dumb grin. To his relief, the stranger laughs at that. “What the Hell! Like the highway man? That’s brilliant!” he calls. “I gotta remember that one.”

“Really?” Newt asks, flushing. It’s a rubbish inside joke, but kind of charming. How nice to see someone not only getting it but also finding it funny.

“Hey, erm,” the guy then says, “you’re a really sweet guy” – Newt blushes – “so, keep your peckers up. Sorry about everything that happened to you. If it’s any consolation, I got turned away today as well.”

Newt turns to listen to him.

“A co-worker I really admire sent me away. Someone really cool and important. I wanted to tell him about new ideas… projects, so to speak, to finally get upgraded. He didn’t even let me say a word about them.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “That’s not nice.” He briefly wonders how cool someone needs to be in order for this guy to call them ‘cool’.

The guy smiles. “No, he isn’t nice. Indeed.” He looks up, hands in his pockets, to grin at Newt, a gesture so thoughtful it almost makes them miss Newt’s front door. “It’s here, actually,” he utters and clutches his bag. The guy nods. Newt takes a long time to fumble with his keys. His mum opens the door before he can.

“There you are, dear… oh.” She notices the stranger.

“Hello,” he says, flashing his brightest smile and coming up to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hello,” she smiles back, astonished.

“Was nice talking to you,” he then says to Newt and steps back. “Darling, you didn’t tell me you would bring someone,” Newt’s mum says – and that’s when it finally clicks.

Newt’s eyes widen. “No,” he utters.

“I wasn’t gonna stay anyway,” the stranger says with a smile, but Newt’s blood pressure goes nuts. “No,” he says again, “this isn’t what it looks like, mum.” He shoves his body inside, slamming the door shut and rushing to his room where the bag just falls out of his hands.

Newt panics. His face is boiling. Breathing heavily, he fishes for his mobile – the emergency mobile – to emergency-text Anathema.

_sorry to bother you at this point, but do you know anything about love spells? by any chance? because i think i might be spellbound and i can’t cope with it and i don’t know who did it_

Or is Anathema the one that cursed him? Would she do something like that? No, she would never. Newt’s head spins. He hits ‘send’, but his phone’s screen blackens with a soft sigh. He covers his mouth with a trembling hand as realisation draws upon him. He has a crush. A magical crush. But a guy crush. On the coolest and suavest guy he’s ever met. A guy he _just met_, for that matter.

Newt needs to sit down. Oh God.

But no need to panic. No. Maybe it was all a regular crush. An acquaintance.

Just at that moment, his mum asks from outside his room, “Darling, are you all right? Can I come in?”

“I bit off his avocado chips,” Newt calls in desperation and buries his face in his Doctor Who pillow. Oh God.

When he had recovered from the shock, Newt’s phone is still off. He sits down at his desk and starts a new page in his squared notebook. Considering the events of the past weeks, he should probably collect all information he has about the current situation. And be cautious. Then he can start investigating. And so, he writes:

_\- London, Soho: <strike>beautiful</strike> nice-looking stranger; black make-up; black clothes; black scarf → gothic?? cosplay??_

_\- avocado cream_

_\- very friendly and suave; probably gay_

_\- made me feel happy (spell? a witch? ask Anathema) (or possibly Sergeant Shadwell) → danger???_

_\- bunny ears_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eric needs more love. And Newt’s British schoolboy aesthetics fit him, I found. Stay tuned ♡


	2. Cheshire Cat

Master Crowley’s resentment isn’t a major setback. Sure, it’s frustrating. But all Eric has to do now is wait for a more convenient time to meet. Master Crowley would host him another time. He surely would. They just met with bad timing. He would _have_ to listen to Eric someday. Surely.

Right now, Eric’s only problem is to kill time. He goes through his notes again and rereads a few studies on Chethuqr culture, but all of that only painfully reminds him of how his ideas are always brushed under the carpet. He could talk to no one about Chethuqr. Or the US president’s removal from office. No one has any interest in that, they’re all busy tempting priests and cursing harvests. Or something. He hasn’t gotten any notes from head office lately. He has nothing to do.

Eric rolls around on the library’s ceiling, a bottle of tea floating beside him. He closes the dusty book with a sigh – he should do a sudoku for distraction. Luckily he still has a spare copy of himself to hang out with.

“The three belongs up there, not here,” it says.

Eric lowers his phone. His copy is floating next to him under the ceiling, eyes closed and legs crossed in meditation. But everything he can see, his copies can too. That comes in handy on demonic missions, but in spare time it’s just annoying.

“Thanks for the input,” Eric says.

“You’re welcome,” the copy says. It shifts a bit. “What about those avocado cream chips? Those were tasty.”

“I’m not in the mood for eating,” Eric says and pouts in frustration.

“You’re not in the mood for anything,” it snaps. It goes back to tranquillity with a roll of its shoulders. “We both know that what you should be doing right now is studying up on Mu, just to comprehend what Master Crowley’s ideas were when he helped built the M25 and not look like an idiot in front of him,” it says.

Eric hums.

“Instead you’re wasting our time here in the universe’s shabbiest library with that sudoku app. That’s a five, honey, not a seven.”

“Yeah, I realise that,” Eric calls and tosses his phone away. He isn’t even sure which allegation he’s responding to. He pulls his knees closer to hug them. Maybe he should get a manicure…

“No, you should be reading about Mu’s ancient black priesthoods!”

“You’re a pain in the backside,” Eric replies. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“No notes from head office, I’m afraid. You should be thankful that Master Ligur isn’t looking for a quick destruction right now.”

“A miracle he came back after the failed End Times,” Eric murmurs. “Yeah, I thought we lost him for good,” the copy whispers. “Anyway,” it continues, “we don’t have any missions to complete right now.”

“So, we’re stuck, I guess,” Eric murmurs and drinks some of his tea. It tastes okay. That avocado cream indeed wasn’t so bad, he recalls. And neither was that cute human he accompanied. “You should be thankful for him,” the copies grins, eyes still closed, “if it wasn’t for him, you would’ve never tried that shabby fish and chips joint.”

Eric shifts. His copy is right.

“I usually am,” it smiles smugly.

“I wonder what he’s up to,” Eric says and pulls his phone up again. He didn’t have a job, had he? Poor fellow.

“Honey, don’t waste your time thinking about that human. The angels will take care of him.”

“Will they though?” Eric wonders. That principality was friends with Master Crowley after all. Would he help get a human a job? Probably not. Eric looks at his reflection in the dark screen. He packs his things and books float back into their respective shelves.

“I don’t like it,” the copy says.

“Well, we should split then, hm?” Eric hums. “You can stay here and study up on Mu or whatever, and I’ll check up on our little disaster boy.”

Finally, the copy opens its eyes, just to give Eric a sceptical look.

“What?” Eric asks. “Isn’t that a fair share?”

“It’s not about that,” the copy says, stretching its neck and preparing to get up. Eric can feel its numbness in his own bones. “Why do you care so much?” it asks.

“I feel sorry for him,” Eric says simply, but neither of them buy it. Eric adjusts his posture as he remembers the boy’s red eyes and the wet face. “He seemed so lost,” he says.

The copy gives him a warning look. “Don’t get yourself into trouble, honey.”

“I won’t get into trouble.”

“I know you, you’re weak for him already,” the copy sighs and throws up its hands. “But fine with me, I won’t interfere. He’s cute, I guess. Go look after him and I’ll work my way through those thousands of Mu scrolls in the meantime.”

“Okay. Thanks. You can have the rest of the tea,” Eric says as he leaves the high ceiling. “How kind,” the copy says sarcastically and gets up. Eric waves as he floats downwards.

It has been a few days since they have met in Soho, but Eric exactly remembers the way to the boy’s home. He gives his outfit a green-ish tint to hide in a tree near the boy’s window (and finds that he should try this colour shade more often). The boy is home a lot, so he probably still doesn’t have a job. From here, Eric has a good view on the boy’s desk, where he hides a brown notebook in-between his stuff – pencils, more books, small souvenirs – but no computer. The notebook seems to be important. And he barely uses his mobile, Eric notices. He bites into his avocado toast as he watches the boy take notes and glue in newspaper articles. Aw, he’s listing adverts! Eric scares away a dove that tries to steal his toast.

After nightfall, he can finally come a bit closer to the window. He floats and takes in look into the room. The boy is fast asleep, pressing a stuffed cat to his chest. Eric sighs. How cute.

He then remembers that this isn’t what he’s here for. Get a grip! With a swift of his hand, the notebook leaves its pile of books and opens. From outside the window, Eric flicks through the pages. But there’s no job adverts. Instead, Eric reads an alarming lot about nipple counting. “Nipples?” he says irritated. The pages turn sheepishly. Now, there’re notes about a ‘suave man in black’. A name – Anathema. Notes about gothic and comic conventions. Articles, cut from magazines, that talk about dating app success rates. ‘Count nipples’, he reads, underlined thrice.

“What the hell,” Eric murmurs and looks up in confusion. Is this… about him?

Told you so, he hears his copy calling from Hell.

The next days, Eric follows the boy in secret. Stalking is bad, yeah, but who has started the stalking? Besides, he’s a demon, he should be stalking and creeping and lurking. Part of the training. No big deal.

The boy has intrigued him. Nipple counting isn’t something humans do on a regular basis. Was that the temptation’s fallout? The boy seems oddly fascinated with him, Eric thinks. He shivers. Was that a good thing? Or a bad thing? What was it with that obsessive behaviour? Was he a creep? Please don’t let him be some creep…

Eric has a lot of questions, but at least the name Anathema makes sense now, the boy goes to meet her twice this week. Apparently she is the ex-girlfriend that he has broken up with. How nice to see they still get along. Turns out Anathema is a witch – and the boy thinks she has cursed him with a love spell. Either her or the ‘suave man in black’ – he had no idea about demonic temptation.

But the worst part is, despite his newspaper reading, despite his meetings with his friend, the boy is utterly miserable. He has trouble sleeping, he rarely showers. His lovely mum had to remind him every day to take his medicine. And he still doesn’t have a job, mainly because most jobs these days require computers, and apparently the boy is no good with them. He lives with his mum, but he has confessed to Anathema that he’d rather not live at her expense because he feels guilty about that. She then has taken his hand and said, “Newt, it’s going to be all right.”

Newt. Cute name, Eric thinks. If Anathema can’t get him a job by using witchcraft, then demonic powers have to come into play.

“You’re not seriously going to do this, are you,” his copy says in a tone of exhortation.

“Why not? He’s miserable.”

“Yeah,” the copy sighs as it continues to paint its nails. “No offense, but with that smell you’re going to need a fuck ton of miracles to get anyone to employ him.”

“You’re right.” Eric thinks for a moment. “He and the witch will go on a distraction-picnic tomorrow. How about I surprise him with a Rituals hamper? Shampoo, conditioner, bodywash…”

“On a picnic?” the copy snaps and looks at him in confusion. “Like, hello there, I’ve been stalking you for the past few days, take this as a sign of how utterly bad you smell?”

“He’s not like other humans,” Eric counters.

“He’s not like other boys,” the copy ridicules him, “yeah, because he’s a creep!”

“Miss me with your bullshit,” Eric smiles sarcastically. “I will go meet him there.”

The copy sighs and closes the nail polish. “You do realise he has a crush on you?” it asks. Eric nods, unsure. The thought still feels foreign to him. “It’s just the temptation’s fallout,” he says and shrugs.

“You sure about that?” the copy asks, knowing fully well that Eric does, so he doesn’t answer. He leaves for the next Rituals shop and arranges a nice gift basket. Meanwhile, he lets the copy chose an office in London for Newt to work in, but the time is short, because Lord Ligur has a job for Eric down in Greece.

“You, rat! You go.”

And yes, his copy goes to do it. It is more hardworking than the self that has met Newt on the street. Eric hoped desperately that it would stick around longer than the others. Or himself, for that matter.

Rituals has an avocado set of grooming products. He takes one out of the basket and says, “I love those – oh, this one smells amazing!”

“Me too, I really enjoy this one. Would you like to take it?” the shop assistant asks. Eric hesitates. He puts the sample back. “No,” he then says. “I don’t know whether the person I’m buying this for is that much into avocados.”

“Well,” she says with risen eyebrows, “do you know the person well? Otherwise?”

Uff. “Can’t really say that,” Eric admits. He’s read the notebook, at least.

“May I ask who it is you’re planning on gifting this?”

Who is he buying it for? A stranger? As a thank-you? No, he just wants Newt to smell better for his job interview. And maybe give him a bit of a self-esteem boost. But could he say that? Eric gives the assistant the once-ever. She would cringe, surely. So, just for the sake of simplicity, he replies, “It’s our second date, and I’d like to gift him something.”

“Well,” the assistant says rationally, “seeing how it’s only your second date and you don’t know each other that well – you should just gift him something that will remind him of you. If he knows you like avocados, then the gift will remind him of you and he’ll always remember it was from you.”

“That’s… actually true,” Eric says and smiles. “Thank you. I’ll take this one then.”

“All right.”

With enthusiastic steps, Eric leaves, the basket in his hands. He should just fly to St. James’s Park, really, that would be a lot faster. Ahh, he can already see their backs. Newt and Anathema are sharing a picnic blanket on the green grass, delicious looking sandwiches in their hands. But something was strange. Someone was…

“Oh,” Eric blurts out. Behind the humans, there’s Master Crowley! And the principality. Okay, so that explained the excessive love radiation. Smelled of strawberries and cinnamon. But why are they here? Is Master Crowley friends with the witch?

Or did the angel in fact take care of Newt before he could?

“Err,” Eric says eloquently, and the angel’s blond head turns first. “Oh, it’s you again,” he says, wine glass in his hand, and that’s enough for Master Crowley to explode. He rolls his head back and groans. “Not now, for Hell’s sake! Can’t I ever catch a break?”

“It’s not about that,” Eric begins with a nervous smile, hand risen in defence, but Master Crowley just turns away and holds up his hand. The ground shakes a little, and then Eric feels himself stumble as his legs melt away.

* * *

What was that smell? “Who was that?” Newt asks, mouth full, and turns.

Right behind him, barely one metre away, a body is melting into the grass and burns it away.

Newt flinches, coughs, and starts screaming. Anathema’s arm supports him a bit at least, but right now he cannot function, his whole body jumps. What the hell! What was going on? “Who was that?!” he repeats, screeching.

“Some intern,” Mr Crowley hisses. “Keeps getting on my nerves.”

“An intern?” Newt squeaks and looks at the black puddle. It smells horrible, and there is some kind of pattern in the bubbles… Right beside it, there’s a decorated basket on the ground, filled with green shampoo bottles. Avocado…?

Anathema tries to calm Newt's hyperventilation, but he cannot think straight. “An intern?” he asks again.

“Yes.”

“An intern from… from Hell? A demonic intern?”

“Seems like it,” Mr Aziraphale says and sips his wine. “How do you know? Anyway, you really didn’t have to do that, my dear. What if someone was looking?”

“No one was looking,” Mr Crowley said as he chewed some bread.

“I was looking,” Newt utters. No way. This couldn’t be…

Anathema makes him turn and observes his eyes. And aura, presumably. Newt feels his breath steady at the sight of her brown eyes. “You knew him? Is that the guy?” she asks, adjusting her glasses. “Yes,” he replies wearily, “yes, I think so.”

Mr Crowley looks up in disbelief. “He’s a demon. What business do you have with demons?”

Newt swallows. Instead of answering, he asks, “What did you do to him?” The sight of that puddle is utterly horrifying, oh gosh. And the smell…

“Killed him,” Mr Crowley shrugs.

Killed him?

“What?” asks Anathema, and Mr Aziraphale turns his head in anger, but Mr Crowley is quick to stop the protest: “Relax, guys! It’s nothing.”

“Killed him,” Newt repeats in disbelief and stares at the blanket. That nice man is- was a demon? A real demon from hell? Anathema tries her best to comfort him, but she’s (understandably) way too irritated to sound actually calming when she asks, “Newt, how have you met him? Did you do anything dangerous? And what’s with the shampoo?”

“Rituals,” Mr Aziraphale reads with interest. “That isn’t cheap.”

“But it’s a gift basket!” Anathema says and gets up to inspect it. Newt whimpers at the loss of touch. How would he know if he was about to do anything dangerous? He’s dated a witch! “Do demons gift presents?” she asks.

“No,” Mr Crowley says, who is clearly very fed up with this topic. “Look, guys, I just want to continue this meal, okay?”

“And I wanted him to talk to me!” Newt snaps. Everyone looks at him. “He wanted to talk to me, and that hamper was for me! For me!” He buries his head in his hands. First a witch and now a demon… “This is a disaster, and so am I,” he cries. The ground beneath him feels suddenly very hard, and he’s so cold, despite all the blood rushing through his ears.

Mr Aziraphale is the one to break the silence as he clears his throat. “Looks like someone owes Newton an apology,” he says loudly.

Newt feels Anathema caressing his back. He’s missed the touch. He sniffs. “It’s really not that serious,” he hears Mr Crowley say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you… what, were friends? Doesn’t matter now.”

Newt sniffs louder. “That doesn’t even come close to an apology,” Mr Aziraphale scolds, and then he says to Newt, “I’m sorry, my dear boy, don’t cry. I’m sure it’s tough. But look on the bright side, you still have the soap.”

Newt sniffs louder, weeping.

“Stop it,” Mr Crowley hisses, “it’s not that serious! He’ll come back!”

“What?” Anathema asks.

“He’ll come back,” Mr Crowley repeats, calming down. “It’s his job to be indestructible.”

Newt raises his head and manages to open his burning eyes. Mr Aziraphale is closer to him now and gives him a caring smile before crawling back again. Newt wipes his face. “Indestructible?” he mumbles.

“Yes,” Mr Crowley says, “he’s always coming back, got several copies. Don’t worry.”

Newt’s heart stops. “When will he come back?” He looks down. “Will he remember me? Will he look different? How will I know it’s him?”

“Newt, this isn’t Doctor Who,” Anathema sighs. Newt nods. He shouldn’t be so childish. It’s not Doctor Who, it’s literal Hell. What a bloody relief then, haha! Funny! Not!

Thankfully, Anathema accompanies Newt home. Mr Aziraphale has apologised two more times, and Mr Crowley has said nothing in order to not upset anyone again. Newt unlocks the door and turns to thank Anathema. She sighs. “I didn’t know it was him,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Newt shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t do anything. Mr Crowley does not seem to like him, and if you’re in that guy’s bad books…” He looks down.

“Just try and wait,” Anathema says. “If it’s true that he’s indestructible, he’ll find you again.”

Newt gives her a tired smile. She’s so kind. “Thank you,” he says again.

“Don’t mention it.” She smiles back. “Just maybe… y’know, make use of the shampoo.”

The shampoo smells really nice. But Newt did not read the label outside the shower, and inside, his eyesight is too bad to make out anything. What’s the difference between shampoo and conditioner? And which once do you use first? And what about the tablet of soap? Was that only for hands?

Newt sighs and puts the bottle down, water drops running over him. “I know nothing,” he sighs.

But all of this is for him, without a doubt. There was even a little card with Newt’s name on it, but the demon did not write his own. Newt doubts the gift really is as special as he hopes it to be. Is the guy just in general a fan of avocados and gifts everyone avocado stuff? He knows about hair products, for sure, with those fluffy bunny ears.

But what’s the message here? Mr Crowley was sure that people were gifted soap if they smelled bad. Which Newt currently does, admittedly.

However, Mr Aziraphale said that some people just like gifting soap because it’s a nice gender-neutral gift that everyone needs and is – au contraire – a sign of great love for body care.

Newt likes to imagine that it’s a blend of both reasons. As he rubs his body with suds and bubbles, the scent creeps into his nose and reminds him of that afternoon at the fish and chips joint. Where he had offered him the single chip… Newt shivers and closes his eyes. This shampoo smells a lot better than the cream had tasted. And the foam was fluffy and soft and spreads over his whole body, and Newt sees the guy’s face again. The demon’s face. The beautiful face and the toothy smile.

He hisses in frustration and turns off the water to fish for his fluffy Dalek towel. (It’s his favourite, and his mum has put it out ready for him.) After blindly exiting the shower, Newt dries his body properly, and he involuntarily wonders about how many nipples a demon has.

A demon. This changes everything, and Newt digs up the notebook later that night to write down the updates. At least he wouldn’t have to contact Sergeant Shadwell now.

A demon. Who wanted to gift him expensive beauty products. Before being melted into a puddle of bubbling black slobber.

Newt grabs his cat plushie tighter and stares at his dark desk. What should he do now?

_\- is in fact a D E M O N_

_\- acquainted with Mr Crowley (not in a friendly way) → has wanted to talk to Mr Crowley in the past → about what? demon work?_

_\- can regenerate_

_\- avocado shampoo and other products (further google search) (or ask Anathema)_

_\- apparently Hell offers internships_

He should go to bed. And wait. Newt turns and turns – he doesn’t know how to feel. Does he still have a crush? Has the crush been real after all? He has trouble going to sleep, and the next morning is, accordingly, exhausting, because everything feels like a nightmare. Newt pours himself some cornflakes and ponders whether or not he should tell his mum about the nice guy from last week being a literal demon. Or that he has been killed by his superior and melted right in front of him. She hasn’t asked about him ever since that afternoon.

The phone rings, and his mum gets up. Bloody hell, who calls at this time? Oh, ‘hell’…

“Darling,” she calls, “it’s for you.”

“For me?” Newt stumbles and rushes to the phone. His mum’s expression varies between excitement and confusion, and Newt cautiously takes the handset. “Hello?” he asks unsurely.

“Ahh, good morning, Mr Pulsifer! This is Dormouse International from Westminster. I am Trevor from Human Resources.” Who? “My name’s Trevor. Sorry for calling this early, Mr Pulsifer, but I was hoping whether we would be so lucky as to have you for a job interview this morning?”

Newt’s mouth falls open. “Job interview?”

“Yes. You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you, as you did not send a candidature,” the man says and laughs. Newt joins awkwardly.

“You know, an associate told us you about your qualifications, and just so you know – we would really benefit from someone like you in our international enterprise.”

Newt still laughs. “This has to be a mistake.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t! You are Mr Newton Henry William Pulsifer, aren’t you?”

Newt stops laughing. “Yes,” he answers.

“I understand you’re a busy man, Mr Pulsifer, but I would be very happy if you could spare some time to think about working with us.”

“Where do you want me to work then?” Newt asks mechanically. This has to be a joke.

“Oh, that’s up to you!” the man laughs. “Whichever department you like best, Mr Pulsifer.”

“That’s… hang on a second.” Newt covers the handset and looks at his mum. “It’s a job offer,” he whispers in disbelief. His mum nods in encouragement. Trevor tells him the company’s address (Newt frantically tries to think whether he’s ever heard of them) and invites him for an interview at eleven. This is happening, apparently.

“I’ll be on my way then,” he says, clinging to his shoulder bag. His mum cups his cheek. “I’m so happy for you!” she smiles.

“I’ll believe it when I get there,” Newt says wearily.

“That associate must’ve been that new friend of yours,” she laughs. Newt shifts. “He’s not really a… friend,” he utters, but his mum just shakes her head and adjusts his jacket. “Darling, you know that there is nothing bad about gay relationships-”

“It’s not like that!”

“-and regardless, that new shampoo smells amazing. Say thank you in my name the next time you see him!”

Newt swallows. Yes, _if_ I see him again, he thinks. He waves and leaves for the tube.

When he ascends the tube’s stairs in Westminster, the sun shines brightly into his face and birds fly the clear blue sky. Newt stops walking and clings to the strap of his bag to fish for the note with the company’s address. Victoria Street – that’s such a noble corner! This cannot be real. Maybe it was Mr Aziraphale’s way of apologising…

Newt’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out of his bag and reads a message from ‘unknown’. But it’s just gibberish, probably spam. He narrows his eyes and tires reading it aloud: “Fre-sha-vaca-do…?”

“You called?”

“Ahh!” Newt jumps. Right next to him, on a parked car’s roof, there’s…

“It’s you,” Newt utters. He smiles at the sight of the black scarf and the black make-up and the bunny ears. And the demon smiles back. “Hello,” he says and waves. He slouches on top of the car and rolls himself onto his belly like nobody’s watching. Well, probably because nobody’s watching.

Newt steps closer. “I missed you,” he says, “I guess.”

“Same,” the demon says with a guilty smile. “I am so sorry for what happened yesterday, that was so awkward. I wish you didn’t have to see that.”

“It’s… all right,” Newt manages to say. The blood has returned to his ears. “I’m just glad to see you’re fine,” he says. There’s a bit of uncomfortable silence before he decides to compliment on the black glasses.

“Oh, thanks! I thought I’d try wearing some eyewear,” the demon smiles.

There’s another pause as Newt steps closer. Should he address the elephant in the room? “You’re on your way to the interview, right?” the demon says from above, and Newt nods. “That’s great. Consulting or so. A copy of mine set that up. I’m so excited to hear what you think!” he says.

Newt blinks. “S-sorry, a copy?”

“Ahh, yes,” the demon makes and smiles sheepishly. “I know, that’s, err, a foreign concept to most living creatures. But we are many, my fellow copies and I. We…” He breaths in and sits up cross-legged. “If there’s dirty work for Hell where they need cannon fodder, that’s our job.”

“Cannon fodder?” Newt blinks. “Yes, figures. Mr Crowley said you were indestructible.”

“Crowley? Indestructible, did he say that? Sounds way nicer than ‘disposable’…”

“Is that what they call you?” Newt asks in a sad tone. The demon looks at him for a while but then he just smiles mysteriously. ‘Disposable’, that sounds mean. He looks sad, too, which is why Newt decides to not talk about Mr Crowley any longer. God knows what kind of history they have.

“Just for clarification, because I want to be fair with you” – the demon jumps from the car and makes Newt step back – “I’m not the same body that ate chips with you. Logically, I mean – that one melted away.”

“Okay,” Newt says, taking aback by the beautiful face being so close. “It was a… c-copy, I understand that.”

But… was this one here the same demon? Did he have the same memories? If there were copies, was there an original as well? Was this some kind of Meta-Crisis-Doctor situation?

“Hey,” the demon says and searches for Newt’s eyes, “I’m still the same though.” He flashes him a smile that makes Newt’s heart skip a beat. “It’s kinda messed up, but it’s not as complicated as it sounds. Now, come on. We have to make a move if you don’t wanna miss that job interview.”

“Yeah, sure,” Newt murmurs as they get going. The demon accompanies him. The Indestructible Demon. “I don’t know if that’s offensive or so,” Newt begins unsurely, “but I just want to say that… for a demon, you’re very, very nice.”

He turns to smile at him through those fashionable glasses. And with those ridiculous, yet stylish bunny ears. “And you’re very good-looking,” Newt adds as his face burns away. Good-looking and probably not dangerous.

The demon just laughs – it’s the same bright laugh he used when Newt told him about Dick Turpin. “Thank you! You’re really sweet to say that,” he smiles.

Newt nods. He _is_ the same, isn’t he? They talk a bit about the shampoo the demon wanted to bring him, and how amazing it smells. Newt thanked him about a thousand times, not only for the shampoo, but also for the job, which the demon guaranteed him he would get.

“I literally cannot thank you enough for this. I don’t know how I could make up for this,” Newt says as they stop in front of the glass door that says Dormouse International. “No need to make up for anything. It’s just a favour,” the demon smiles. There’s a pause before he sticks out his hand. “Good luck, Newt,” he says. Newt takes it without a second thought, but it feels surprisingly undemonic.

“No demon deal,” the demon assures him sarcastically.

Newt laughs awkwardly.

“No, really, no demon deal,” the demon says in a more serious tone. Newt chuckles and collects himself. “Thank you,” he says. Thank you, Indestructible Demon. Then he ducks his head, checks the company’s name once again, and wants to open the door – but he swirls around. “What’s your name?” he blurts out.

But the demon isn’t there anymore.

Newt sighs. Was this what going insane felt like? He is so glad this friendly demon from hell was fine (never thought that was a sentence he’d ever say), but he’s also kind of sad. The demon has told him he was the same, but he seemed strangely upset, especially when Newt mentioned Mr Crowley. And Mr Crowley was the one who said that this bunny demon was just an annoying intern… and melted him to death. Maybe he _should_ look into this, Newt thinks. He is a witchfinder after all, demons were just the next logical step. He’s got experience in research. He could do this.


	3. Rabbit Hole

“You’re being so stupid, it’s actually ridiculous.”

“Oh, really?” Eric snaps. He turns around and flaps his arms but instantly returns his eyes to the leaking wall. Bloody Hell, this isn’t his job! His copies are unimpressed. He huffs. “What’s so ridiculous about wanting to see him again, hm?” he asks, addressing the one who’s been drinking tea the whole time.

“Your obsession with him. That’s ridiculous. You’re a demon, you’re not supposed to have flirts with humans.”

Eric clicks his tongue and tries looking anywhere else; he won’t stand for this. “I’m also not supposed to stare at a leaking wall for days! Why can’t you admit it?” he asks them. “Yes, he’s weird and kind of a creep. But you like his sweetness, and his quirks, and his voice.”

“Oh, yeah, when he gets excited! That little lisp is very cute,” one copy agrees with a smile.

“See?” Eric says. His eyes are widened, he feels terrible.

“I also like how he tends to bite his bottom lip, that shit’s cute as hell” – he looks around scared – “no pun intended.”

The other copy rolls its eyes. “Who am I to stop you? Go find him,” it sighs. “We’ll keep watching that leak.”

Eric nods. “Thank you.”

“Bye,” the other copy smiles and waves.

Newt is on the tube right now, on his way home. Eric can’t be bothered with waiting for the train (or meeting other humans), so he just jumps onto Newt’s carriage and melts through the roof. With a lightning bolt the other passengers are gone. Eric places himself in the baggage rack and looks down onto a rather terrified looking Newt, bag pressed to his chest as he leans back in fear, but the feeling’s radiation is almost indefinable in this foggy cloud of stress that is the London tube.

“H-hello,” Newt says.

“Hi,” Eric growls and looks around.

“How are you?” Newt asks politely and adjusts his glasses.

“I’ve been better,” Eric says and crawls along the baggage rack. The tube rattles, rattles, rattles.

“Oh,” Newt says. “You dropped the glasses,” he noticed.

Eric hums. Rattle, rattle, rattle. Belatedly, he asks, “How about you? You okay?” Newt nods. “The job is amazing,” he smiles. “If I can keep this up, the rent will never ever be a problem again. And they print out everything for me! I can do everything on paper. I absolutely love it.”

“Splendid,” Eric says without looking at him. He could not stretch the ride any longer. This has been a rubbish idea. “I’ll pop in by the window from time to time to wave and bring you coffee,” he adds absently.

“The office is on the tenth floor.”

Now Eric meets his eyes. “So?” he asks.

Newt swallows and says, “Be careful.” Rattle, rattle, rattle. “Oh, and by the way,” he adds in a haste, “I remembered something I wanted to ask you.”

Eric hums again, but the strength he needs to delay the arrival in the next station is making the carriage’s ground ooze pitch-black tar. Newt lifts his feet and continues, “W-when we first met, you said you were sent away by someone. For a pitch-meeting or so. You said that was someone very cool and important. Was that Mr Crowley, by any chance?”

“It was,” Eric snarls. He’s too weak for this. “Goodbye, Newt.” Ere the boy could reply anything, Eric is gone. He couldn’t even make sure the tar was gone. He just lands somewhere in the tube’s dark and moist tunnel. He growls in endeavour. The rattling is gone, but the rails vibrate. He needs to get out of here.

He isn’t the one for the job. That tea-copy was enthusiastic and sweet, _that one_ should go and talk to Newt. Eric returns to Hell and they switch places in the blink of an eye and the snap of two fingers.

“You’re fitter than I am. Go, please.”

“Okay.” Eric shrugs and goes to the surface. Newt must be somewhere here… ah, right he leaves the tube. “Hey,” Eric calls from somewhere in the crowd of busy businesspeople. When he waves, Newt sees him. “Hello again,” he says, clinging to his bag’s strap like he always does. How cute! “Was the tar still there?” Eric asks in embarrassment.

“That black stuff? Err, yes,” Newt murmurs.

Eric contorts his face. “Urgh. Awkward.”

Newt looks down. “Yes, they, err, just evacuated the train,” he says.

“Did they?” Eric asks in excitement. Then maybe this counted as a demonic miracle! Good for the records. “Yeah, this isn’t my station. I don’t know when the next train home arrives,” Newt says.

“Oh,” Eric says and finds his seriousness again. “I’m sorry, sweetie, that was ruthless of me.” He reaches for Newt’s arm, and he allows the touch. “I’m gonna make up for it. There’s cute joint down the road,” he says.

“Fish and chips?” Newt asks with that cute smile of his, and Eric replies, suddenly feeling electrified, “No. Something much cooler.”

They arrive at the small comic shop in no time, and it isn’t even that crowded (of course it isn’t, Eric took care of that). “You’ve never been here?” he asks Newt as he pulls the door open.

“No,” he says unsurely, “Japanese comics aren’t… err…”

“They aren’t your thing, hm? They do have a sci-fi corner here though,” Eric says and greets the shop owner with a smile.

“Irrashaimase.”

“Hello, Saito-san,” he smiles and pulls Newt into the shop’s darkest corner, past all the sci-fi stuff. There, the big pink photo booth plays upbeat pop music and blinks in every possible colour. “What’s that?” Newt asks with both fascination and panic lacing his tone.

“This, my friend,” Eric presents, “is a print-club photo booth.” With a finger clicking, the fee is paid, Newt’s bag is gone and Eric takes both his hands to pull him inside. Newt is a bit irritated by the green screen. “It takes special-effect photos?” he asks.

“Yes!” Eric calls in excitement. He’s always wanted to do this with someone other than his copies. He’s so excited his feet jump on their own. With a grin, he selects the options on the screen for a couple shoot and some cute backgrounds.

“No English version available,” Newt reads aloud and watches Eric change the settings. “Can you read Japanese?” he asks, and Eric laughs. “Sweetie, I can read every language spoken on Earth. And elsewhere,” he says with a smirk.

“Oh, that’s fortunate. So, we don’t need the Tardis to translate everything, right?” Newt says. He awkwardly laughs at his own joke, and even though he’s never watched Doctor Who, Eric feels like bursting. He’s never felt this much adoration in his demon body – hopefully it could take it.

“Get ready,” he smiles and puts Newt in place beside him. The machine counts down and Newt flinches. “It goes fast,” Eric laughs, full of adrenaline. “Quick, what’s our next pose? Should we do that one?”

“The suggestion? B-but that’s a-” The flashing light cuts Newt off. Eric has such an unholy amount of fun with this that he laughs out loud. “Come on, faster! Let’s do the heart pose!”

“Okay,” Newt agrees, soft hand forming a heart next to Eric’s. Thankfully, he giggles as he does.

After having taken a bunch of photos, Eric guides Newt to the decoration screen. It’s two-parted, so each of them has their own device. “You can do anything you want,” Eric says and hands him the pen. “There’s stickers, patterns, frames, it’s a whole lot of fun. Look at how cute we look!”

Newt choses the heart-photo, ponders for a moment, and then he says: “I’ll write our names.”

“Nice one,” Eric replies as he skims the stickers on his side of the screen.

Newt giggles. “What _is_ your name?” he asks as if it’s long overdue.

Eric looks up. Has he never told him?

Newt’s eyes search for his behind the thick glasses. “I won’t write ‘The Indestructible Demon’, so…”

Eric smiles at how ridiculously close they are. For a brief moment, he’s pleasantly stumped. “Eric,” he says, “my name is Eric.”

“Eric?” Newt repeats, smile melting into a frown.

“Yes,” Eric replies, unsure.

“Bit anti-climatic for a literal demon,” Newt finds. But then his features soften, and he shrugs it off. “Nice to meet you, Eric,” he says quietly, gives him another smile and then turns to write it down.

So cute…! But just as the pen touches the screen, the machine howls, blinks a last time. And shuts down.

Newt swallows.

Eric bursts out into laughing. “What the Hell!”

“Oh dear,” Newt whispers. He’s trying to keep cool, but his big shoulders slope down fast and his frown looks so miserable that Eric, totally against his demonic nature (again), tries to console him. “There, there,” he says, patting his shoulder. “We’ll come here another day.”

“No,” Newt says again, “it’s my fault.”

“Your fault? Oh, because you’re no good with electronic stuff,” Eric remembers (and painfully tries not to laugh again). “That’s an understatement,” Newt sighs and puts the pen back. “I destroy everything. Anything. I mean, that comes in handy when you’re trying to deactivate nuclear bombs” – impressive, Eric thinks – “but I could never use a computer or a game boy or anything like that for a long time.” He sighs.

Eric asks, “So, like, everything? There isn’t anything you won’t destroy? Hard to believe.”

Newt gives him a sad look. Then he remembers something: “Err, electric blankets, actually.”

“Those keep working? Why?”

Newt shrugs. “Don’t know.” They both start laughing at that. Some minutes later they browse the sci-fi comics. They leave the store just before closing time, without any photo stickers. But Eric figures it was about the activity itself and not the resulting photos. Seldomly has he been this happy. And Newt’s happy too, he was practically smelling of bliss. It’s a sweet scent.

“That was fun,” Newt says as they stand in front of the shop. There is a bit of a pause as they both look to their feet. “My mum’s cooking this evening, so… I’ll better make a move now,” Newt says somewhen.

“I’ll walk you to the station,” Eric offers, but just then, squeaking brakes catch his attention. His antennae twitch. Dragging a lot of demonic darkness with it, a black vintage Bentley pulls around the corner and stops right next to them. Master Crowley leans through the open window. “There you are,” he says.

Wow! What’s he doing here? Has he been looking for him? Eric straightens up. “I believe this is your ride,” Newt says while trying to hide his smile. He fails.

“What?”

“Get in, please,” Master Crowley calls. He seems tense. Does he want to… talk? No way. Eric turns to face Newt. “Have you…? I mean…” he begins, feeling terrible unwell.

“I thought I’d help you. Job-wise, just like you helped me,” Newt explains with a proud nod, and Eric notices that he looks taller now.

Eric’s mouth won’t close. “When…? You didn’t have to – Newt, that was a favour,” he says.

Newt smiles. “And I’m returning it.”

Wow. For a moment, all that Eric can see is this weird human with his weird witchfinder jacket and his stupid weird eyes, smelling of sweet, sweet bliss. Just when he thinks he can actually hear his own heartbeat, Eric gets pulled back into his timeline by Master Crowley’s voice. “Come on in, titch, I want to be home in time for dinner,” he calls.

“I’m coming,” Eric says. A grin creeps onto his face as he hugs Newt (very, very tight, gosh, he’s so soft) and jumps around the car to enter. ‘Thank you’ he mouths in disbelieve and gets in. This is happening! He has so much to talk about!

* * *

So, here they are. He smells as though he tries to cover up the sulphur with vegetables. Crowley shakes his head and starts driving as the junior demon makes himself comfortable in the leather seat. _Aziraphale’s_ leather seat. The angel’s voice echoes inside his head.

_“Go after him! You barely apologised. I will not stand for this, even he’s a demon. Just listen to him for a few minutes.”_

Who’s Crowley to say no to the Guardian of the Eden? He hesitated at first, but then the witchfinder reached out to him as well.

_“He’s done me a huge favour, and I’d like to return it. Could you please spare some time for him?”_

So, here they are. And Crowley listens to what the little bugger has to say, side-eying him through the whole thing. Does he know him? Have they ever talked to one another before? He does have some fun ideas about Korea, Crowley thought. Good work, all enthusiastic. He’d been like this after being sent to Earth, but the excitement had worn off quickly. The little one isn’t like that. Crowley grinds his teeth when he criticises his work on the M25, but he figures it’s kind of justified when Crowley has hated himself for it as well (that day when the world was about to end, phew).

“I doubt that Chethuqr would’ve made any difference for the human souls though,” he says as they cross Piccadilly Circus.

“Maybe not,” the little one says, “but at least it would’ve been more accessible for other demons. I think you’re the only one I know who has actually studied Mu.”

“Do I look like I studied Mu?” Crowley says with an annoyed look. The little one opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t. They drive silently for a few moments until he eventually says: “Master Crowley, I know that you know a great deal about humanity-”

“Yes, you know more, I get it,” Crowley hisses, wheel tight beneath his hands.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” the little one says, and his voice is trailing off as though he is preparing himself for being melted again. Crowley must say, the thought was tempting, but apparently it was showing: “Please don’t kill me again,” the little one begs so loudly that Crowley almost hit a pedestrian.

“What the Hell, don’t scream,” Crowley sighs. The Bentley harrumphs.

“I know you’ve been thinking about it,” the little one whines. “I hate this so much!” he adds and pouts, staring out the window. Crowley feels his face soften. “The disposability, you mean?” he asks carefully. This guy was like a teenager.

The young demon shifts on his seat. “Sometimes I don’t even know which copy did what! It’s so hard to keep track,” he murmurs.

Crowley hums.

“But that’s not the point,” he continues.

“It’s not?”

“No! The point is that everybody just always pushes me around. Or kills me off because of some minor inconvenience!”

Crowley grabs the wheel a bit tighter. He feels guilty.

“Duke Ligur keeps killing me off for fun,” the kid cries. He looks miserable. “It’s not about this… copy-thing. That thing’s in my blood, I don’t know why we are so many. It’s just… I don’t wanna get melted anymore, I guess?” He sighs and falls silent.

Crowley clears his throat. What should he say to that? “I don’t know what that feels like,” he blurts out somewhen, truthfully so. Hell’s not exactly been nice to him during his lifetime, but at least no one’s ever pulverised him. Let alone thousands and thousands of times. “After my trial they would never do that anyway,” he adds in a glad tone.

“Of course they wouldn’t,” the kid says.

“Everyone fears me,” Crowley sings. “You’re the first demon that talks to me again.”

“What an honour,” the little one says, and Crowley is about to call him out on his sarcasm, but the kid is serious. Crowley shifts. He does feel bad for him. In a moment of disgusting, totally uncalled-for empathy, he brings himself to say, “Maybe I could… y’know, have a word with Ligur and the other lowlifes.”

The kid turns to him with wide eyes. “What?”

“I can’t stand that you’re so upset,” Crowley admits. “Especially that it’s my fault as well. I’m sorry for… melting you.”

The kid smiles broadly. “Kind of you to say that, thanks,” he says.

They come closer to the bookshop. “Anyways,” Crowley says to end his weird meet-up, “I’ll pop in sometime to talk them out of killing you, how’s that sound?”

“Great, actually,” the kid says and blushes. “Can I hug you?” he asks as he already leans in, and Crowley lets it happen. “There, there,” he says and pats his lean shoulder. Jesus, this boy is a bag of bones. And black lace

After they stepped out of the car, Crowley shakes his hand. “You’re bright, little one,” he says. “Use that little head of yours.”

“I will, thank you, Master Crowley.”

Crowley sighs. “Don’t forget that you’re indestructible,” he says. The kid sways and gives him a sweet look. When he disappears, Crowley realises he probably should’ve asked for his name. On the other hand, Ligur probably doesn’t know him by name, so it didn’t really matter.

Crowley turns to go back inside – he’s looking forward to dinner so much…! Aziraphale opens the door before Crowley miracles it open. “Hello, dear,” he grins. “That was very kind of you.”

“Will you shut up and let me eat already?” Crowley sighs.

“I always knew you had a soft spot for kids,” Aziraphale sings as he leads him inside. Crowley groans and swears that he’ll never do a joint picnic ever again.

Speaking of which – what kind of connection do young Pulsifer and Junior have? He should’ve asked. But everything’s forgotten when Aziraphale hugs him from behind and starts kissing his neck.

* * *

Newt owns _so many_ astronomy books. Add to that the ones he’s lending from the local library, the solar system bed sheets, and you’ve got yourself a full-on nerd. Eric loves it.

“So,” he says and blows his cup of tea a bit cooler. He’s not flirted in a long while. “You like the stars then?”

“Anathema really knew a lot about them. It was more of a hobby for me,” Newt says, adjusting his glasses.

“So, you do like them?” Eric grins.

“I guess,” Newt chuckles and shifts on his bed. He’s sitting on the blanket in tailor-fashion, or at least approximately he does. Eric lays on his stomach, feet dancing in the air and drinking his tea with a little bit of miracle magic.

“It all started with the reruns of Doctor Who,” Newt explains. Oh, here we go, more Doctor Who tales. Eric could listen to him for centuries. Humans may not often realise it, but they look and smell the best when they’re really into something, like Newt is at the moment.

“And it’s not even like I don’t recognise the flaws of season eleven, the writers did screw up at times. ‘The Battle of Ranskoor Av Kolos’ was rather underwhelming. But I’ll still keep watching, I mean, Jodie Whittaker is doing an amazing job, you know? I just wish they’d give her a bit more to work with.”

“Totally,” Eric agrees (he doesn’t really have an opinion, but still). He does know Newt’s favourite Doctor though, it’s the one with the amazing scarf. That one’s been fun indeed.

Continuing their conversation from ‘scarves’, they arrive at the topic of ice skating sometime later.

“I totally think that the Elves in Lord of the Rings can ice-skate, but I’ve got yet to find someone who agrees,” Newt says with a serious frown. “Everyone’s always like, ‘oh, but there aren’t any ice-skates in all of Tolkien’s work’, and I’m like, who cares? If it’s modelled after the European Middle Ages, then ice-skates are a real possibility –I think they found some five thousand years old ones in F-finland or something.”

“True.” (This time he’s not bullshitting, he actually remembers his time in Scandinavia.)

“And winters in Middle Earth can be pretty mild, if you don’t go up north too far, and Elves have beautiful ponds, haven’t they?” Newt argues. “I mean, don’t Elves look like figure skaters already?”

“What if,” Eric thinks aloud to tempt him, “Elessar brought some new skating technique to the Elves?”

“Yeah, coming from the north and such,” Newt nods, brows dropping in a heavy frown. He’s actually thinking about this!

Then he turns to face Eric with a shining smile. “You’re the first one to agree on this with me,” he says with that cute lisp.

“Oh,” Eric downplays, “I’m just a bit of a figure skater myself.”

“Really?”

_Finally_. “Yup. Down in Judecca, that place is frozen all year. Granted,” Eric says with a grimace, “there are blasphemous souls frozen in that ice, and there are giant, red-eyed bugs floating around.”

“Oh, you’re talking about hell,” Newt says quietly and swallows.

“Yeah, Ninth Circle. Deepest pit of all.”

Awkward. Eric cheers up to happily say, “But it’s quite magical. Totally silent, and, I’m telling you, that gravity makes anyone look graceful when they attempt a pirouette.”

“I bet you do,” Newt says softly. He glances at Eric before looking into his teacup again. Radiating that sweetness again. It mixes with the taste of the Darjeeling at the back of Eric’s throat.

It almost makes him melt, figuratively speaking. He smiles, “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll find out one day.”

“In hell?” Newt asks with his voice rising about two octaves, but Eric is quick to change the topic: “Master Crowley is actually thinking about the update! Can you believe it?” He makes the teacup float to playfully roll into Newt’s lap, where it’s warm and even sweeter.

With his cup almost falling down, Newt tenses and blushes terribly, adding some hot spice to the sweetness. Why hasn’t Eric tried being so close to him before? It feels amazing.

“He said he’d go down to Hell and talk about it to my superiors. And he listened to my ideas and projects – all thanks to you,” Eric beams upwards. His antenna twitch happily at the sight above him.

Newt swallows. “I-I’m glad to hear that. Really.”

“I’m forever in your gratitude, I’m not exaggerating,” Eric sighs and curls up in his lap like a cat. It feels safe here. “Not exaggerating, no. It feels so surreal. Not getting killed whenever it’s convenient for other demons.”

“That still fucks me up,” Newt whines above him, and it makes Eric smile softly against his legs. “Is there anything I can do for you?”  
“No,” Eric smiles. “You’ve already done so much. You’re a human, sweetheart, and a damn pure one at that – you shouldn’t get caught in Hellish crossfire.”

Newt starts mumbling as though that fact was up for debate.

“I’m fine,” Eric whispers and looks up to find Newt’s sapphire eyes roaming him. He reaches out for Eric’s face – and starts caressing his cheek.

Oh, fuck. Eric purrs in content.

After a few moments, Newt eases into the touch and relaxes his whole body. He’s so warm and soft, Eric thinks in bliss. Bliss, another smell that’s quite extraordinary, more intense than when they had left the manga store. He’s not tasted it this strong for a long while.

“You know,” Newt whispers after a while, “as disturbing as that getting-reborn-stuff is – when I first learned about it, I thought it felt like the regenerations in Doctor Who.”

Eric chuckles. “Unbelievable. You always manage to come back to that show.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Newt apologises immediately, “I didn’t mean it that way. Disrespectful, I mean!”

“Hey, I know,” Eric snickers and takes his hand. “Just pulling your leg. I’m sure you tried to find something positive in all that madness. Totally normal, human idiosyncrasy.”

Newt stares at him smilingly, and his laugh comes out like a shaking sigh.

Eric breathes in deeply. He shifts, looking upwards. “Y’know,” he says, eyes locking, “you’re really, really cute, Newton Henry William Pulsifer.”

Newt blushes and smiles. “So are you, Eric. The Indestructible Demon.”

Ahh, and it happens. Finally. Newt bends down, Eric puts a halt to this room’s gravity, and their lips meet halfway. Floating, gentle and soft.

The chasteness tints Eric’s demonic nature with warmth and twists the deepest levels of his being, deliciously so, and Eric pushes back, lips smacking softly against Newt’s to further deepen the luscious touch.

But he feels Newt panic beneath his skin and pulls away to look through sapphire eyes right into his little soul. “Sorry,” Eric breathes, not sure if they’ve returned to the right plain of existence yet. They’re still intertwined and floating above the bed, so Eric makes them sink slowly.

“I’m fine,” Newt says, blinking. “It’s just… I’ve never…”  
“Snogged a demon?” Eric teases, smiling widely. Nuzzling gently.

“Yes,” Newt breathes against his lips, and goes in for another kiss. Taken aback, Eric stumbles right into the chasm of sweetness that opens up below them. Like sugar running through his blood. It feels, pardon the expression, Heavenly.

It turns into Hell quite fast as Eric’s nature tries to balance things out. Tar starts bubbling on the bed, with pitch-black nets of oil and butterflies that emerge from his body, wrapping them both in tingling miracles and loud roars pulled directly from Hell. The taste turns into that of the Apple of the First Sin. And Eric can feel his dead heart pounding.

He’s madly in love, all right. With a mortal.

Newt gasps against Eric’s chin and pulls back, eyes shining wide. He breathes heavily, but it comes out as sulphur steam.

Eric tries to calm him and shushes the butterflies away. “I’m sorry,” he growls with a roar, “can’t help it.” With a snap (and some exertion of force), they’re back in Newt’s normal room.

The last purple butterfly flaps its wings in front of Newt’s soft face, and Eric makes it disappear with a quiet _pop_. Newt stares at the remaining glitter on his nose, and All Hail Satan, he’s the human Eric wants to stay with forever.

“We’ll figure it out,” he smiles, and Newt chuckles as though to recover from adrenalin overflow. He pecks Eric’s nose, and they giggle happily, sheets rustling beneath them.

They stay like this, with Newt caressing Eric’s hair (it’s actually really cute how carefully he avoids the antenna), calm and warm, as Earth continues to spin quietly in space.

“Can I ask you a question?” Newt asks somewhen.

Eric smiles against his leg and murmurs, “Sure.”

“How many nipples do you have?”  
Eric chuckles. “Oh, yeah, that’s your thing, right? How many do you want me to have?”

Newt stammers in bashfulness, but Eric strokes his arm to calm him, sending waves of reassurance through the touch. “Relax. We’ll figure it out, okay? First I’m gonna teach you figure skating in Judecca. Or dancing, for that matter. Someone has to raise demons’ partying standards anyway.”

“You could, um, buy me dinner first,” Newt says with a lisp.

Eric beams. “I bought you fish and chips!” he calls.

“Those don’t count!”

“They bloody do!”

They play around on the bed for a while, rolling around in sweet bliss, until Eric pauses – something rings in his ears, pulling slightly Hellwards. Newt stops to look at him. Blue eyes worrying. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Eric murmurs. “I thought I heard something.”

It felt like a demon calling. Was it…? Naah, probably just the afterglow of demonic bleeding. With a mental shake of his head, Eric rolls on top of Newt and tickles his nose with his pinkie. He looks so cute without his glasses! “Y’know what,” Eric says, “why _not_ go for dinner? I know just the place.”

Newt’s face breaks into a sparkling smile. Eric bends down to kiss it.

* * *

Newt’s never been out to dinner in such a fancy French restaurant, let alone on a bloody date. A date with a literal demon from Hell. One who he’s kind of fallen in love with. It’s a big deal.

He looks around nervously. His Tom Baker tie looks so lame in comparison to what Eric has changed into. He looks like a Victorian fantasy character as he eyes the menu. But he said he liked Newt’s outfit best, so…

“Cognac Shrimp with Beurre Blanc,” Eric reads from the menu like true connoisseur and pouts, looking impressed. The vintage glasses support his posh look.

Newt stares in awe and adoration alike. To think that Eric might have put a spell a on him seemed downright ridiculous, looking back. Maybe Newt shouldn’t have been so mistrustful. Maybe then he’d fallen in love even quicker.

“Or should I start with that Soupe de Poisson à la Rouille? I haven’t had something Mediterranean in a while.” Eric looks up at Newt with wide eyes, demonic pull reaching across the candles. “What’ll you have, dear?”

“Err,” Newt goes at that pet name, blood rushing to his ears. He doesn’t know anything about French cuisine, except that it’s called ‘cuisine’. “Do they have crêpes here, by any chance?” he asks quietly.

Eric claps the menu shut with a knowing smile. “Y’know what – you’re gonna get the best bloody crêpe you’ve ever tasted.”

They have an amazing evening. Eric lights up the whole place with his charm, and Newt feels at ease despite not knowing what parts of the cutlery he should use, or which wine to order, or with cheese to taste.

Eric knows it all and fools around with Newt as though he’s not taking any of that stuff seriously himself. Each of his smiles directed toward Newt feels like the stars aligning. It’s… honestly and utterly charming. People must’ve fallen in love with Eric all the time.

He must feel at ease, too, knowing that he won’t get melted for fun anymore.

He conjures dozens of different crêpes for Newt, with chocolate, fruits, whipped cream, and of course, a green one that tastes of avocado.

As they sit like this, joking and giggling, the candles burn down slowly, and the wine bottles get empty. With all that additional sensory input, Eric looks even more dreamy, Newt thinks tiredly.

But suddenly, something in his soft features hardens, and he frowns, like he did back in Newt’s room when they were making out.

Ere Newt can ask what is wrong, Eric flips out his mobile and clicks his tongue. “Oh dear, I shall be late,” he says. And rises out of his chair.

“W-where are you going?” Newt asks, looking after him, but Erik doesn’t stop – Newt should follow him, shouldn’t he? But could they leave without paying? Just like that? But Eric is a demon, so has he ever considered to pay in the first place?

“Thanks for the m-meal,” Newt stammers under his breath as he gets out of chair and stumbles after Eric. One glass of wine too many. This is like walking out of the supermarket without having bought anything, except that this time he _did_ buy something.

“Eric?” Newt calls, walking straight past the waitress at the entrance, and finds himself out on the street. He catches Eric talking on his mobile and taking a left turn, into an alleyway behind the restaurant.

Newt still hears the tower clock. It’s midnight.

Eric does stand in the alleyway. He bows to another man – a considerably worse dressed one, that is. Who wears lizards on their heads?

Oh. Newt swallows hard as he realizes who that might be, and the lamp of the wall he’s leaning against flickers suspiciously, as though his fear had climbed up the wall.

Panicking, he presses his eyes closed fast. That’s another demon. A real one. Well, not that Eric’s not a real one, it’s just that –

“Your upgrade, worm, must be formally requested. There are one thousand and one applications to make?”

“What?”

“Are you new to Hell?”

“No, um, pardon me, Duke Ligur. I’m n-not, of course.”

A Demon Duke, Newt thinks with shaking knees and the wine rumbling in his stomach. A demon that makes Eric uneasy. Must be one of the big boys. How many nipples –

Flashes of the Apocalypse shine in front of his shut eyes. He’d never met the Witchfinders without the Apocalypse. He’d never met Anathema without the Witchfinders. He’d never met Eric without Anathema. He’d not be who he is today. And still –

“Newt.”

“Ahh!”

“Don’t scream,” Eric shushes him and pulls him back onto the street. Newt indulges in being back near him, gloved hand warm on his arm. “Who was that?” he asks, searching for Eric’s dark and comforting eyes, but it’s then when the Demon Duke appears next to him out of thin air.

He eyes Newt so closely he’s about to pass out from fear, heart racing. And then he looks at Eric again, big eyes changing colour in coordination with the chameleon on his head. It’s red now, what does that mean?!

“Newt,” Eric says again, grapping both his shoulders to keep him from panicking. The Duke seems to like what he sees.

Newt stares at Eric.

“Newt,” he begins anew, his voice even softer than before. A lonely car passes by.

“Duke Ligur, my superior,” he explains with a glance sideways, “has spoken to me about my upgrade. They’ll listen to my ideas in the Great Circle – Lord Beelzebub, Lord Dagon, everyone will be there.” He smiles shakily, shining, and Newt softens.

“That’s wonderful,” he says, and he genuinely means it.

“Right?” Eric smiles back. Wearily. “But, Newt,” he adds – he says his name so beautifully – “it means that I will be busy for a while. Down there.”

“In Hell,” the Duke specifies without any spark of humour.

Newt swallows and looks back at Eric. “Take me with you,” he utters. Idiot. But he doubles down on it: “I mean it, I want to come with you.”

“What?” the Duke asks, scandalised.

“What?” Eric asks, ever so softly. His eyes stay locked with Newt’s. “I mean it,” Newt repeats, voice firmer than it has ever been. He didn’t even know he could speak up like this.

The terribly long and awkward pause hurts all three of them. “Tell me,” the Duke snarls, “have you tempted a human into goin’ to Hell? A soul as pure as this?”

Eric stills looks dangerously dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing, and Newt reaches down take him by his burning hand. “That’s right,” Newt says, “temptation.”

The Duke’s eyes widen. “Marvellous. Downright diabolical.” He chuckles, a cold and stinking sound. “So, that’s what you’ve been doin’. Seems like we’ve been missing out, not havin’ you around,” he spits, and Eric laughs nervously. “Right, you have,” he says.

“I will await your arrival,” the Duke says with another evil laugh that makes Newt’s bones shake. And then he fucking sinks into the street, steam boiling. Newt coughs at the sharp sulphur smell.

It’s silent for a few moments ere Eric swirls him around. “I did not tempt you.”

“You did not?” Newt asks, and Eric softens with his head tilted. “You want to go to Hell with me?” he asks softly, trembling fingers stroking through Newt’s hair. Is he blushing?

Newt laughs in disbelief, gently squeezing his boiling hot hand. “You make it sound like it’s a terribly romantic gesture,” he murmurs.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Eric says, grabs his face and pulls him in for a crashing kiss – feels like a never-ending looping of crazy colours – and then takes both Newt’s hands with the most sincere look that Newt has ever seen on his beautiful face.

And yet Eric’s brows are furrowed in concern. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry, so sorry,” he says, “but I can’t promise that you’re not gonna get hurt. I mean, I will do anything to protect you. But – you know – it’s Hell.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Newt says as though he knew exactly what he was getting into (he wasn’t, needless to say). He did think a lot about them dancing together in low gravity and all that, but… “The risk makes it more exciting,” Newt adds, trying to sound nonchalant and cool.

Eric still looks tense, but at least he’s smiling now. A tingling thumb rubs over Newt’s hand. “Dancing with the devil, are we?” he asks through batting eyelashes.

“I hope so, someday,” Newt sighs. “Or with a demon, at least. ‘Gracefully’, in Judecca?”

Now Erik full-on grins, looking Newt up and down with his tongue stuck out. “You’re so cheesy!” he complains.

“I’m not the one who looks like an Alice in Wonderland character!” Newt defends himself half-heartedly. He’s too busy taking in the warm glow coming off of his demon to put up a fight.

‘His’ demon, right? Right?

“You bloody firebrand,” Eric smiles, “we’re talking about Hell. _The_ Hell! What kind of logic makes you want to go there?”

“Oh,” Newt sighs, “right now, I’m bloody far from logic.”

“An excellent presupposition,” Eric says with relish. He pulls Newt closer, and it feels weirdly astral. The streetlights fade. “You sure?” – “Y-yes.” – “Then down we go,” Eric whispers. Newt can feel the colours changing.

_Science and reason will tell us so  
The blood in our veins are just chemicals  
Better believe I keep my demons to myself  
Better believe it’s getting harder  
But I’m never gonna stop until it’s broken  
Never gonna stop until it’s broken –_

_Dancing on glass…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Late update, but here it is :’) Originally, I wanted to write more. Maybe Newt learning more about his *dark side* through Eric, and adventures in Hell? I didn’t even talk about Eric’s wings yet, I’m torn between “tiny and fluffy” and “giant gargoyle style”! What do you think?
> 
> So, this is complete now! Otherwise I’m never gonna finish it!! :’)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I’m also sharing [my Black Rabbit playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2k0TyLQJVC3RrAZtKYApz4?si=ruViQuLOSli-V-sCnoFn6w) that I originally created for writing this fic ♡ Take care!


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